


Option One

by Loftec



Series: Rainy Days [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Figuring Things Out, M/M, Post Season 5, no prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6447838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loftec/pseuds/Loftec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6308239">Fast Car</a>.</p><p>"We'll figure it out."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Option One

...

 

 

”We’ll figure it out.”

Ian hums but keeps his gaze firmly out the window, not even entirely sure to what he’s agreeing. It was raining this morning, he remembers hearing the drops hitting against his window, waking him up. Now, the only traces left of it are in the puddles staining the poorly maintained asphalt, splashing up on the sidewalks in the late afternoon traffic. They slow down and stop completely, Ian staring blankly at the myriad of red lights in front of them, keeping them in place.

”You even listening?”

”What?” Ian asks and simultaneously admits. ”No, sorry.”

”Great.”

Ian blinks and tries to sideline his trudging thoughts for a second in order to focus on his companion. ”Sorry,” he says again, and hopes it sounds more like he means it this time. He turns a little in his seat and looks at Lip, one hand on the steering wheel, the other by his mouth, slowly rubbing at his cheek. He drops it to shift gears and glances at Ian when the lights turn yellow, turn green. He offers him a wry smile before returning his full concentration to his driving, turning left at the intersection.

”Save it,” he says and looks like he thinks he’s real funny, ”you’re gonna need it.” Ian shakes his head and turns away again, can’t believe he pulled himself out of spacing out for that. Can’t believe he’s been spending this much time with his brother and hasn’t wanted to throttle him, yet. 

”Nervous?” Lip asks. Ian frowns and catches his own faint reflection in the window when he does, the low sun flooding the car with a new turn.

He looks down at his hands, resting on the bag in his lap, and shakes his head before he remembers that Lip shouldn’t be able to see him. ”No.”

Lip hums and adjusts his grip on the wheel, Ian can sense him glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. ”You feeling okay?”

That fucking question, Ian genuinely doesn’t know why he finds it so frustratingly difficult to answer. After all this, why it still flips the switch on all of his defenses, walls shooting up, spikes out. It’s a fair question, especially in his case, so he’s trying really hard not to take it so damned personally. Couple of deep breaths, wait it out. Just answer.

”Yeah,” he sighs, ”not so much. But not because- not like that, you know?”

Lip makes a small noise and tilts his head, turning away from Ian when he makes another left turn. ”Not really, but I also accepted a long time ago that I’ll probably never truly ’know’, _you know_?”

Ian rolls his eyes at him but can’t help smiling a little when his brother smirks. Their relationship has always been a curious mix of complete confidence and never having to really say anything, and Ian reminds himself constantly to be thankful for it. No matter how infuriating Lip can be, as a confidant and a conversationalist, he also somehow just _gets it_. Most of the time.

It took a while, but at some point Lip also started accepting that he no longer was Ian’s main man and their brotherhood could shift into something new, something different. Better, Ian thinks, at least for him. He hopes Lip thinks so too.

”This fucking street,” Lip mutters, and Ian looks out the window to notice that they’ve arrived, ”I always forget this.”

He slows the car down to a creep, both craning their necks in vain to find an empty spot.

”Fuck it,” Lip eventually gives up and pulls in by a couple of inches to double-park next to a beat up Volvo, he lets the engine run, taking the cigarette wedged in behind his ear to relight it, ”you get out and I’ll drive around the block, find somewhere to park.”

Ian nods and puts his hand on the door, hesitating for a second with a quick glance in Lip’s direction. Lip pulls at his cigarette and makes a face. 

”Go get ’em, tiger,” he says, smoke clouding his blank face.

Ignoring his brother’s dry encouragement, Ian opens the door and climbs out on the street, turning and leaning over to look back in at him. 

”Try left,” he says and closes the door. He stands still for a second, watching the car pick up speed and make a left turn at the end of the street. This is good, this is better. This gives him a couple of minutes on his own, better not waste them.

He hitches up his duffle bag on his shoulder and walks across the street, up to the rickety chicken wire fence, placing a hand on the handle for a moment before turning it and pulling the gate open. Walking through it he turns to secure the gate when he hears the door open behind him.

”Dad!”

He turns around in time to see the small boy climb down the concrete steps, in too much of a hurry to be safe. He moves forward to stop him, but the kid’s already made it to the ground by the time he reaches him, so all Ian can really do is drop down on one knee and catch him in a firm embrace.

”Hey, monkey,” he whispers and sighs against his son’s neck, making him giggle and squirm. He smiles and can’t resist kissing him there, too, making him laugh out loud and hold on tighter. ”Missed ya.”

”You did?” He sounds delighted, but it still tugs at Ian’s heart that he feels like he needs to ask.

”’Course I did,” he says, holding his son at arm’s length to take in his smiling face, ”every day, every minute. Sorry I couldn’t be here sooner.”

”That’s okay,” his kid says and nods magnanimously, ”you didn’t miss much.”

”No?” Ian smiles, carefully pushing a stray stand of black hair out of his wide blue eyes. ”Where’s your dad?”

”Yevgeny?” A voice calls from inside, as if on cue, causing Ian to look up and his son to twist in his arms. ”What did I tell ya about running outside without your fucking shoes, man?”

Ian smiles wider when Yevgeny turns back and looks at him in gleeful horror. ”Did you do that?” Ian asks in a dramatic whisper and purses his lips when Yevgeny clasps his hands over his mouth. ”Don’t worry, I got your back.”

Groaning he gets up on his feet and takes Yevgeny with him, settling him against his side and readjusting the bag on his other, hitching it up his shoulder before securely folding both arms around his son.

”You’ve been growin’ without me, haven’t you?” he accuses and shakes his head when Yevgeny happily denies it, ”don’t believe you.”

Yevgeny starts talking about his week, arms around Ian’s neck and feet dangling as they’re climbing up the steps to the still open front door. Ian listens and hums, occasionally gasping in surprise and offering up his opinion in one-worded sentences. They get inside and Ian shoves the door shut behind them with his foot, carefully passing through the short hallway and into the living room. 

Mickey’s in the kitchen, back to the living room by the sink, the tap running. Ian pauses in the doorway, taking in the sight of him. Neck loose and bent, arms working, scrubbing the stains out of a big pan, Ian can tell his shoulders are tense.

”Emma said her dad went to space,” Ian tears his eyes from Mickey and twists his head to look at Yevgeny, ”no really, ’s what she said!”

”Sounds… improbable,” Ian suggests lamely, momentarily blindsided by Yevgeny’s retelling, if only because it hadn’t come up during any of their nightly bedtime phone calls in the past two weeks.

”Sounds like horseshit!” Yevgeny agrees, and Ian turns to look at Mickey again when he hears him snort. He’s turned off the tap and is standing leaning against the sink, carefully drying his hands and not looking at Ian.

”Hey,” Ian says and sets Yevgeny down on the floor, threading a hand through his hair and smiling softly at him, ”what would you think about staying with Uncle Lip tonight, huh?”

Yevgeny frowns in consideration. ”Really?” 

”Liam’s got that new game you’ve been givin’ dad hell about, you know,” Ian tempts, gently pinching at his ear, ”and I heard something about pizza.”

”I wanna stay at Uncle Lip’s,” Yevgeny demands, ”can I?”

”If you insist,” Ian smiles, ”go pack your bag, he’ll be here soon.”

Yevgeny whoops and turns around to hurry up the stairs, leaving Ian alone in the kitchen with Mickey. He feels the straps of his bag slide down his shoulder, so he lets go of it, wincing internally at the thud when it hits the floor.

”You stayin’?” Mickey asks, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows before he pointedly eyes the bag.

”Yeah,” Ian says and swallows, ”yeah, if that’s okay.”

Mickey looks like he wants to say something, but he nods instead, Adam’s apple bobbing and brows furrowing. Eyes on the floor between them.

”It okay for Lip to take Yev tonight?” Ian asks, suddenly gripped by that insecurity of ’not yours’ he really hates, but never seems quite able to shake, ”thought we could do with some space, you know, to talk.”

”Could’ve called Lana,” Mickey points out, ”if I’d known you were coming.”

Ian sighs and nods, recognizing the hurt buried deep in Mickey’s voice. ”Sorry, I didn’t- I should’ve-”

”Two weeks, Ian,” there’s anger there, Mickey was never good at concealing it but he’s gotten so good at stifling it Ian almost misses the days when he’d just let go, lash out, give as good as he was getting, ”five minutes to send a fucking text, man.”

Ian nods again, mouth dry and unwilling. ”Called, everyday.”

”Yeah, I know,” Mickey frowns, ”thanks.”

Ian can feel his lips twitching into an involuntary smile, Mickey being snarky and sarcastic always had that effect on him. It fades when he looks up and meets his eyes, however, sees them shine and wane.

”But having to ask my 6-year-old if you’re okay, Ian, it’s-,” Mickey pulls in a sharp breath and Ian nods again, feels like there’s little else he can do; agree, apologize, don’t argue, please, please don’t argue, ”just wanna know you’re-”

”Dad!”

Yevgeny’s voice, calling from upstairs, cuts Mickey off mid-sentence and Ian can feel his own quickened breath leveling out in an instant. He takes a step back and angles himself away from Mickey, like they don’t already have a whole room between them and he’s breaking them apart to get some space. He doesn’t want any space, but it’s by far the easiest way to go.

”Yeah?” Mickey yells back, always the one to recover himself faster. ”What?”

”Not you!” Yevgeny reprimands, like it’s obvious. There is a certain difference in inflection when he uses ’dad’ to refer to both Ian and Mickey, Ian swears he can hear it no matter how much Mickey’s calling bullshit, but even Ian has to admit that the word loses its tender nuances when it’s yelled through an entire house.

”One sec, Yev, comin’,” Ian promises, leaning closer to the staircase and pausing for a second to make sure he’s been heard. When he looks back at Mickey, he’s got his arms around himself and head bent, eyes on his feet.

”I should-,” Ian gestures towards the stairs and cuts himself off when Mickey nods, still not looking up. There’s that voice inside him, it’s nasty and unfair and it’s telling him there’s no point in trying. He hesitates, foot on the first step, and turns around again. Mickey’s looking at him, like he’s had his eyes glued to his back the second he turned and all he can do is blink when Ian notices. It’s tense and uncomfortable and all Ian’s fault, and he still doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to fix it.

”Hey,” he says and swallows nervously, ”option one, right?”

Mickey winces and looks away and Ian curses himself out internally, it was never meant to be a question. It never was, not to him.

”Mick,” he says, hoping his voice is steadier and more reliable to convince than before, ”option one.”

Mickey nods and worries at his lip, before his eyes flick up at Ian for a second and he self-consciously clears his throat, looking away again. ”Yeah, sure, option one.”

He doesn’t sound entirely convinced but Ian knows Mickey’s never straight up lied to him, so he will take it for what it is. Rocky, hurt, affirmative. He nods even though he’s pretty sure Mickey can’t see him, and turns again to climb up the stairs, two steps at a time. He hears the front door open downstairs, and the sounds of Lip shuffling inside the house.

”Mickey,” the greeting sounds through the kitchen, still clear to him as he reaches the top of the stairs, ”how are things?”

Ian might want to stay and find out the short-hand answer to that question, but he’s never been one to eavesdrop. He walks over to Yevgeny’s door, wonky lettering spelling out his name, rapping gently with his knuckles against the wood and slowly pushing it open.

”Hey buddy,” he says, poking his head in, ”what’s up?”

Yevgeny has his backpack on the bed, next to a pile of toys and clothes. Ian walks all the way inside the room and sits down at the foot of the bed.

”I can’t find my pajamas,” Yevgeny tells him from where he’s halfway inside his narrow closet.

”What about these?” Ian asks, rifling through the pile on the bed.

”Dino-jamas,” Yevgeny insists and sighs when he causes an avalanche of socks to rain down at his feet.

Ian absentmindedly starts sorting through the clothes, folding them as he goes. ”Don’t really need all of this, Yev. Gonna be just for tonight.”

Yevgeny steps away from the closet and looks around the room, hands on his hips and a concerned frown on his forehead. Ian can’t help smiling at his distress.

”Pick one shirt, one pair of socks, hey, dino underpants?” He picks a pair up from the pile and spins them around on one finger, eliciting a small grin from his kid who still manages to look entirely unconvinced. ”One of each, and then you can stuff the rest of your bag with toys.”

Almost there. ”What about my ’jamas?”

”Tell you what,” Ian leans his elbows on his knees and gives Yevgeny a conspiratorial look, ”you go on packing, I’ll go interrogate your dad about this PJ-crisis, okay? Sort it out.”

”You’ll get distracted,” Yevgeny frowns and it takes all of Ian’s willpower not to laugh out loud. He can’t help a quick smile, however, one that immediately turns into a pained grimace, dipping his head to hide it. He doesn’t want to tell his son there’s a very low risk of his dads getting distracted today.

”U-huh,” he says instead, making sure to have his smile back on when he looks up, ”I can do it, Captain, promise.”

Yevgeny makes a face because, yes, he’s heard this before and it _usually_ ends up with him finding his dads smooching in a corner somewhere, completely compromised. Still, Ian tilts his head forward a little and gives him the doe-eyes, and it does the trick. Yevgeny grins and nods, sanctioning the mission.

”One of each,” Ian reminds him, pointing at the pile on the bed and standing up, quickly pressing a kiss to Yevgeny’s temple before stretching out his back and walking through the door.

He makes a quick detour for the bathroom, grabbing Yevgeny’s toothbrush and his novelty toothpaste, dropping them into the toiletry bag he usually uses for sleep-overs. He clutches the small bag in his hands and when he approaches the top of the stairs, he can hear Mickey and Lip still talking in the kitchen. He’s about to open his mouth when something causes him to pause, leaning his shoulder against the wall and guiltily studying the cartoon characters on the bag in his hands, listening.

”Don’t think so, Mickey,” Lip sounds the way he always sounds, but Ian can tell he’s concerned. 

”Think whatever the fuck you want, man,” Mickey sighs, voice muffled for a second like he’s rubbing his hands over his face, ”I take what I get.”

”You should, you know, probably talk this stuff out,” Lip suggests, like this hasn’t been Ian’s intention all along. Ian frowns and opens his mouth to make his presence known when Mickey speaks again.

”Whatever, this way I know he’ll come back,” Mickey sounds terrible, it’s hidden under his usual bravado and shit-talking tone, but it’s there, ”him loving that kid ’s like the only thing I trust.”

Ian blinks and pulls in a quick breath, suddenly uncomfortable with listening in on their private conversation. He purposefully sets his foot down on the creaky top step and grabs the railing to lean forward a little and raise his voice to make sure it’s heard in the kitchen.

”Mick?”

There’s a low shuffling sound, and the light changes in the bend of the staircase. ”Yeah?”

”Yev’s Jurassic World PJs?” he asks, hoping his voice doesn’t waver the way he imagines it does, ”you seen ’em?”

”Shit,” Mickey mumbles, still loud enough to hear, ”laundry, man. Fucking dryer’s bust again, everything’s out back.”

”No problem,” Ian assures him with a sigh, already trying to figure out if they’ve got enough saved this month to fix the thing. A couple of weeks and they won’t be able to hang stuff outside to dry anymore, either.

”I could, eh- could take a look at it,” Lip says, voice low enough to suggest that he isn’t bothered if Ian can’t hear.

”Hey, not gonna stop you,” Mickey snorts, and the shadow shifts away from the staircase, light hitting the slow-flying specks of dust whirling through the air. Ian steps back up and walks away to Lip’s low muttering of Mickey not properly appreciating what he’s got. 

Yevgeny’s all packed up and ready in his bedroom, turning around to let Ian tuck his toiletries into the toy-stuffed bag, already on his back. 

”What about your PJs?” Ian asks, zipping him back up.

”Oh, I found Fozzie,” Yevgeny tells him and Ian has to bite his lip not to grin too widely, taking him by the shoulders and turning him around to give him a pretend-stern dad-glare. The Fozzie Bear pajamas were at least three sizes too small by now, t-shirt barely reaching past his belly-button and pants looking more like leggings, Mickey and Ian’ve been trying to hide them as part of a long-term plan hopefully culminating in a donation to the charity shop down the street.

”C’mon,” he says, ”downstairs.”

”Where’s your bag?”

Ian turns in the doorway and looks down at his son, thumbs stuck in the straps of his backpack and his face calm and open.

”Dad and I will stay here,” he explains. Usually Yevgeny is really good about these things but Ian’s also very aware of the fact that he’s been gone for a couple of weeks, and adding another night to it might not make any sense whatsoever to a child. Ian isn’t even sure about the decision, seeing as he’d prefer to never let the kid out of sight ever again.

”Why?” Yevgeny asks and he’s got that paranoid glare just like Mickey’s, looking so misplaced on his young face that Ian has to smile, crouching down to get on the same level.

”Truth?” he asks and waits for Yevgeny to nod. ”Your dad and I gotta talk some stuff through, Yev, promise you’ll have a lot more fun with Lip and Liam.”

”Whatcha gonna talk about?”

Ian presses his lips together and tugs gently at one of the straps on Yevgeny’s bag before he reaches up and smoothes the pad of his thumb over the line between his furrowed brows.

”Lookin’ more like your dad every day,” he mumbles and hopes, just really fucking hopes it shows in his weak smile how his heart is bursting with love and light for this kid, ”gonna talk about boring grownup stuff, buddy. Make sure we’re all good, you know? Happy.”

”Okay,” Yevgeny says but he doesn’t look at all convinced.

”And if I’m lucky, we might get a little distracted, too,” Ian suggestively wiggles his eyebrows and grins when Yevgeny makes a disgusted face and rolls his eyes, ”I know, gross right?”

”Yuk,” Yevgeny agrees and promptly puts his hands over Ian’s mouth when he closes his eyes and pouts his lips, kissing the air between them, ”please don’t.”

”So polite,” Ian mumbles against his fingers and gives them a loud, wet kiss that makes Yevgeny giggle and quickly retract his hands to wipe them down his shirt, ”wanna ride?”

Yevgeny nods and Ian twists so he can climb up on his bent back, clasping his arms around his neck and legs at his sides. He descends the stairs slowly, carefully, the warm trusting press of Yevgeny’s cheek against the back of his neck.

”Think it’s the, eh- the internal thermal fuse,” there’s a muffled, tinny quality to Lip’s voice, ”looks like it might be blown.”

”Fucking A,” Mickey sighs, ”so what do I do about it?”

”Replace it?” Lip’s voice comes out clearer, and Ian steps into the room in time to see him get up from behind the dryer, pushed out on an angle. ”Could do it for you. Just get the part you need online first.”

Mickey picks up his eyebrows and takes a deliberate drink from his beer, the liquid sloshing against the brown glass and his lips. He sucks at his teeth and tilts his head, still meeting Lip’s increasingly exasperated look while he brings his beer down to let it dangle between his fingers, next to his hip. Ian lingers by the stairs and feels like he’s getting buzzed just watching, drinking in Mickey’s every quirk and move. 

”Or, _I’ll_ get the part online,” Lip folds and takes out his phone, pointing at Mickey with it, ”and expect payment in shape of dinner.”

Mickey shrugs, hiding his pleased smile behind another quick drink.

”Mean it,” Lip warns, eyes on his phone where he’s presumably looking up the make and model of the broken dryer, ”and I want something good, uh-, what’s that thing you always rave about, dude?”

”Chicken a la Mickey,” Ian offers and focuses his attention on setting Yevgeny safely down on the floor when Mickey looks at him.

”That’s it, I want that,” Lip decides, putting his phone away and looking expectantly between Mickey and Ian, ”2-4 business days, expect me at the end of the week.”

Mickey nods his thanks and sets down his beer, walking past Lip to start pushing the dryer back in place. Lip kinda awkwardly observes at him for a second, tip of his tongue worrying at his bottom lip, before he clears his throat and looks over at Ian, eyes quickly dropping to Yevgeny. A lot can be said about Ian’s older brother but none of it really matters when he looks like this, eyes sharp with unclouded affection and purpose. Ian thinks he’ll forever be indebted to Lip for taking care of Liam when he and Fiona both came up short. For looking at Yevgeny in the same way he does his ward, like there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep them safe.

”Hey bud,” he says and walks over to them, crouching down so he’s on eye level with Yevgeny, ”up for a night of zombies and pizza, huh?”

Yevgeny grins and nods enthusiastically, conflict all but gone from his face in Lip’s presence.

”Let’s get you dressed,” Mickey mutters and presses past Lip and Ian, not looking at either of them as he ushers his son out the kitchen and through the living room. He takes off Yevgeny’s backpack as they’re walking, blindly holding it out behind himself. Ian picks up his step to catch up and takes the bag from him before hanging back, turning to Lip while Mickey helps Yevgeny with his coat.

”Lip, I-,” Ian starts and stops, frowning at himself until Lip holds out his arms, presenting a hearty hug as an alternative to talking. Ian nods and easily falls into it, smiling a little when he feels his brother’s hand patting him on the back.

”Anytime,” he mutters and clasps Ian by the collarbone as he leans back and holds him at arm’s length, ”remember to count to ten.”

Ian doesn’t bother with any kind of comeback, he just shakes his head and hands over Yevgeny’s bag, lets Lip smirk and walk past him. He folds his arms around himself and turns, feeling a deep sense of regret when he sees Mickey on his knees, turning out Yevgeny’s collar. Lip walks past them and through the hallway, settling in to wait with one hand on the door.

”Be good and all that shit,” Mickey mutters and grabs Yevgeny by the lapels to rock him forward and press their foreheads together for a second, scowling ineffectively. Yevgeny’s smile is like the sun.

”Breakfast,” Ian says, taking a step closer, ”tomorrow morning, we’ll come get you, go out, order whatever you want.”

”Pancakes?” Yevgeny asks, like they’re talking Christmas and not something he gets every weekend anyway.

”Sure,” Mickey agrees and stands up, ”many as you can eat, man.”

They leave without any drama and Ian watches them through the window walking down the street, Lip matching his step to Yevgeny’s and carefully holding on to his hand. When they disappear out of view Ian finds himself alone in the living room, arms tight over his chest and looking all around himself as he makes his way to the kitchen, as though Mickey might have decided to hide somewhere.

He’s back standing by the sink, back to Ian.

”Hungry?” he asks, not turning around at the tell-tale creak of the loose board, stepping into the kitchen. Ian takes a deep, slow breath before he answers, tries his hardest not to have it sound like a sigh.

”Yeah,” he exhales. It’s nearly six o’clock, Ian needs to take his meds, he needs to eat something. It’s code, but it’s more like code the way things are when you’ve got a life together. It’s not _just_ because Ian’s sick and Mickey wants to make sure, and it no longer makes Ian want to yell and break, hurt and hurt and hurt. Mickey nods and turns to put the plate he’s been drying down on their kitchen table, still not looking at Ian as he moves through the room, over to the far, top cabinet.

”Was gonna make the kid mac & cheese,” Mickey continues, voice casual, ”but we could order something in, if you want.”

”Don’t mind,” Ian says, picking out bottles and packages from the childproofed medicine cabinet, shaking one of them and twisting it open, ”mac & cheese ’s good.”

He goes through his drugs and vitamins, piling them up one by one on the counter, carefully making sure not to look at the empty pill-organizer Mickey usually fills up for him, wordlessly every Sunday morning like clockwork. He hears the clank of a pot behind him, the tick and flow of the gas being turned on and lit.

”Nearly out,” he mutters to himself, ”left some at Lip’s, I’ll go get them tomorrow after breakfast.”

”Leave ’em,” Ian turns around and looks at Mickey, appearing very preoccupied with reading instructions on the back of a Kraft package, like he doesn’t know them by heart by now, ”feel a fuckton better knowing he’s got some stashed at his place.”

”Yeah, but,” Ian frowns and crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter, ”got like four days left here, Mick. Gonna need it.”

Mickey shrugs and glances quickly at Ian before he moves over to the sink, filling the pot up with water and placing it over the flame. ”Called the clinic, made an appointment for Monday morning. 8:30.”

Mickey isn’t in charge of Ian’s healthcare, but they established early on that it helped Mickey greatly to manage their whole situation if he was allowed to actually manage some of the more practical aspects of it. Ian isn’t at all surprised that he’s had an eye on his prescriptions even without Ian there, making sure he’d not be left stranded without them, no matter what. He is, however, a little surprised by his own reaction, by the tears prickling behind his eyes and his stomach dropping.

”Thanks,” he says and bends his head to hide himself some when he grabs a glass from the cupboard over the sink, his whole body kinda strumming from being so close to Mickey again, hands deceptively steady as he fills up the glass with tap water and turns back to his pills.

Mickey says nothing, and Ian listens to the sounds of him cooking while he meticulously swallows his pills, one by one. After, he fills up his water glass again and sets it down on the table, by his seat. Then he quietly moves around the kitchen, gets a second plate for Mickey, two forks, sets out the salt and pepper shakers, tabasco. He walks out back and takes down the laundry, carefully piling up the still damp clothes over his stretched out arm and dropping the pegs into the little bucket hanging by the door. The sun is low enough to disappear behind the neighbor’s house, casting their backyard in early darkness and the street in bright orange. He grabs the last sheet hanging and throws it over his free shoulder before he walks back inside, closing the door behind him. Mickey’s still stirring at the stove, but now the kitchen is filled with the deep, comforting smell of fake cheese. Ian lays out the laundry in the living room, covering almost every surface he can find, opening the bathroom door and draping the sheet over it last. When he returns to the kitchen, Mickey’s pushing the steaming macaroni onto his plate, saving half to move around the table and dump it all out on the second plate. Ian grabs a beer from the fridge and sits down, twisting the cap off before he sets it down, stretching to reach across the table.

They eat in silence, Mickey keeping his eyes on his food and beer, closing entirely when he tips his head back for a drink. Ian keeps his eyes on Mickey, can’t really stop staring at him once he starts.

”You could come with me?” he suggests when Mickey’s nearly finished his plate, meeting his eyes head on when he looks up, confused.

”To the clinic?” he eventually realizes, ”you don’t want me there, man. Besides, ain’t gonna tell us anything we haven’t heard a million times before.”

”Not on Monday,” Ian hesitates, licking his lips, ”seeing Dr Weiss on Friday and she does couples sometimes, says she won’t mind.”

Mickey frowns and sits back in his chair, fork tapping against porcelain. ”You wanna do fucking couples therapy?”

”No,” Ian bites back a sigh and stares down at what’s left of his dinner before he forces himself to look up again, face neutral, ”not-, not couples therapy, Mick. Just a chance to talk to someone who knows, who might help.”

”Ey, no one knows more about you and me, than you an’ me, Ian,” Mickey tells him, leaning his elbows against the table and returning his attention to his food, ”don’t need none of that shit.”

Ian nods, trying his fucking best not to take Mickey’s brashness personally. ”Get it, you always hated me going.”

Mickey sighs and pushes his empty plate to the side, drinking deeply from his beer before he settles back in his chair, frowning as he stares at the bottle in his lap. Ian turns to his food, using one hand to kneed some tension out of his neck as he eats.

”You know,” Mickey speaks up after a while, voice thick and face like a magnet to Ian’s iron eyes, ”when you started seein’ that headshrink… I know you think I hated it.”

Ian continues eating when Mickey meets his gaze, thinking it might keep him talking. Give him time to get it out, whatever it is. Mickey sighs and pulls a hand down his face before it drops back down his lap, tiny muscle movements up his arm telling Ian he’s picking at the label on his beer.

”Took a while, but I remember when-,” he pauses, eyebrows furrowing and lips twisting, ”one time you got back from one of those sessions and you seemed like _you_ , you know?”

Ian blinks and realizes that he can’t eat another bite, swallowing hard over the food in his mouth and pushing his plate to the side to turn his full attention to Mickey.

”Some new you,” Mickey continues, voice stronger, ”like, someone you wanted to be.”

Ian nods, he remembers it. Remembers that feeling, slowly creeping back in.

”Shit, Ian,” Mickey laughs, and it’s small and humorless, ”every time you walked out that door I thought I’d never see ya again, thought; this is it, man. Your time is up.”

Ian frowns and opens his mouth to argue, snapping it shut when Mickey holds up a hand and cringes slightly.

”Never hated it,” he says and doesn’t continue until Ian gives him a small nod, ”just fucking scared me shitless. ’m not proud of that.”

Ian swallows over the lump building in his throat and leans a little closer, one hand to the table, itching to reach out. ”Option one, Mick. It’s never changed.”

He looks into Mickey’s eyes, like they hold the answer to the fucking universe, and tries not to panic at the face of his own shortcomings. He relies so much on Mickey understanding him, even when it seems impossible; when words stick and stall and lose all meaning. They’ve got systems set up for that, built over time to make all of this easier, for both of them. He feels like the systems are failing, and he’s so afraid that he might be failing too.

Mickey’s eyes are shiny and steady, and he surrenders to Ian with a small tilt of his head and quirk of his lips. Something wavers in his eyes, though, and there’s that worrying line between his brows. He tries to hide it, he tries so hard sometimes Ian wants to crawl inside him and tear him up, or hold him together. It’s maddening, and it’s all he wants in life sometimes. Mickey, however he might get him.

”I eh-, I got checked,” he says and lets out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a second at Mickey’s confused frown, ”didn’t wanna come back home before I got the all clear.”

Mickey’s chair scrapes against the worn linoleum floor and he stands up, looking like he doesn’t know where to go. He turns his back on Ian and then he completes the full 360 and sits back down, gaze somewhere by Ian’s left ear. Breathing slow and controlled.

”I’m clean,” Ian tells him and hurries to get the rest out when Mickey nods, but looks like he wants to throw a punch, ”didn’t do anything, I promise you with all I got, Mick.”

”Yeah, okay,” Mickey huffs wetly, bending his head to press the heel of his free hand against his eye before looking back at Ian, ”real convincin’ when you gotta get tested for fucking STDs to say it.”

”Know what I did to you,” Ian insists, voice a little too low and harsh but he can’t help it, ”you got no reason to ever trust me again, Mick, especially not on this.”

”So you go away for two weeks and show up with fucking paperwork,” Mickey accuses and throws out a hand, gesturing up and down Ian’s body, ”that it? You’re certifiably clean and we’re A-fucking-okay?”

”Needed time,” Ian tries to explain something he hardly understands himself, desperation creeping into his voice, ”and wanted you to have something you could trust, ’cause I know it’s not gonna be me.”

Mickey pinches his eyes shut and shakes his head, letting out a deep sigh through his nose.

”Want to kick myself in the nuts, every time I think of what I did to you,” Ian doesn’t know why it’s so hard for him to show his genuine remorse for cheating on Mickey, high on mania and spinning out of control, trying anything and everything to justify his actions, ”never happening again. Don’t have to believe me but I haven’t, not once, and it’s never happening again.”

Mickey nods, eyes trained on the table between them, and Ian doesn’t know if it’s because he believes him, or if it’s because he’s accepting the possibility that Ian might still be lying.

”Do you really believe I’m only coming back for Yev?” Ian asks, voice feeling impossibly careful after all that. Mickey looks up at him sharply, cool eyes flicking between Ian’s.

”You heard me talkin’ to Lip,” he concludes, face a complete blank when Ian nods.

”What’s option one, Mick?” he asks.

Mickey rolls his eyes and rubs his thumb along his bottom lip, doesn’t look at Ian when he answers. ”Home.”

”Isn’t, though,” Ian tells him, tries to make him really understand, ”’option one; you come back home _with me_ ’, that’s what you said.”

Mickey frowns. ”So?”

”You, _you_ , you fucking idiot,” Ian hopes he sounds fond enough to take the edge off his impatience with Mickey’s stubborn distrust in his own significance, ”Yev is part of you, yeah, but option one is home and home is you, been since you kissed me in that goddamned van and seriously fuck you for still not getting that.”

Mickey fucking laughs, startled and wet and short-lived, and Ian thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. 

”I’m so fucking sorry for ever making you doubt that,” he continues, while the words are still flowing, ”I know it’s not easy, bein’ with me, and you should know I’m trying- I’m really trying not to push you away, imagine either of us better off.”

He can’t help smiling a little when Mickey gets up and starts collecting their dirty dishes, clearly reaching his fill of barefaced emotion for one sitting. Ian wants to sit back and let him, let him regain a little bit of space, but if he doesn’t get all of what he wants to say out now he’s afraid that they’ll fall back into their easy comforts and never truly fix anything.

”Talked to a lawyer,” he says, the plates clattering when Mickey sets them down in the sink, ”about adopting Yev.”

”What?” Mickey turns around and grips the edge of the counter behind him, like he needs to steady himself.

”If we get married,” Ian explains, focusing his thoughts by tapping his pointer finger against the tabletop, fingertip emphasizing every syllable against the smooth wood, ”there’s a chance I could adopt Yev as a third parent, it’s not common but it’s been done.”

Mickey frowns and bows his head, folding his arms over his chest as he listens.

”Lawyer’s a friend of Lip’s,” he continues, encouraged by Mickey’s silence, ”it’s not his usual sorta thing, but he’ll give us advice for free, and he knows people he can refer us to if we need it.”

Mickey’s still not looking at him and he’s shaking his head now, replacing Ian’s excitement with a well-known fear.

”Said my medical history shouldn’t be a problem,” he tries to assure him, but Mickey only makes an annoyed face at that and throws him a quick glare before turning away again, ”then what? What? You don’t wanna get married? You don’t want me to be Yev’s dad?”

”Fuck you,” Mickey sounds about ready to snap, eyes hard and angry when they land on Ian again, ”this how you’re doing this? Today is when you think we should talk about that shit?”

”Not fucking proposing, Mick,” Ian tries to keep the stunned amusement out of his voice, unsuccessfully judging by the hurt look on Mickey’s face, ”just think we need to talk about this, think it could be good for us.”

”For you, maybe,” Mickey all but spits, ”and then what? You got it on fucking paper that Yev’s yours too, soon as you don’t feel like puttin’ up with me you can go find something better, not risking anything.”

Ian can feel his mouth open and close a couple of times, but he has no idea what to say to that.

”Shit, fuck-,” Mickey curses under his breath and walks back to the table to sit down, ”didn’t mean that.”

”But you did,” Ian whispers, ”you do, you said it to Lip and now you’re saying it to me. You think I want something better than this?”

Mickey shakes his head but then kinda looks like he’s giving up, leaning back in his chair and throwing his hands out, teeth sunk deep in his bottom lip and eyebrows high up on his forehead.

”No,” is all Ian says, the only word that really makes any sense right now.

”No?” Mickey repeats, hands pressed against his eyes for a moment before they fall down his lap, and he blinks over at Ian.

”Tellin’ you no, Mick,” Ian near pleads, can feel his eyes brimming with frustrated tears, just waiting to be shed, ”that’s what this’d be about, don’t you get that? Give us both every chance to stay together, or split up, and it’d never have to be about our son, you know? All on us, you an’ me, whatever happens.”

Mickey winces and swallows, but he doesn’t say anything.

”Means I wanna marry you, Mickey, one day,” Ian presses on, carelessly wiping at the goddamned tears he never agreed to let fall, ”and I want to be Yevgeny’s dad, and I want you to believe me when I’m saying this, if you never believe anything else I say.”

”Jesus- fuck,” Mickey sighs and gets up again, turning away some to brush his hands under his eyes, palms wet and shiny when they rest down his sides.

Ian nods to himself, not knowing what else to say. He feels completely drained, and entirely exposed. It’s fine, he thinks, if not now, if not with him. This is it. Mickey walks back to the sink and puts his hands on the counter, leaning his weight on them and bowing his head.

”Gonna have to be a fuckload more romantic when you actually pop the question,” he mutters at last, the familiar snarky, cocky tone back in his voice like fucking music to Ian’s ears, ”otherwise I can tell you right now for sure the answer’s gonna be no.”

Ian grins and lets it turn into a wet laugh when Mickey turns on the tap like it’s nothing, soaking the dishes in the sink and grabbing a sponge to start scrubbing them clean. Ian stays seated for a moment or two, watching him, maybe letting a couple persistent tears fall down his flushed face before he thinks enough is enough. He grabs at his sleeve and quickly dries himself off, gets up and leans against the counter next to Mickey, edge of it pressing into his ass, back of his head resting against the cupboards above. He tilts his head to the side and quietly observes Mickey’s calm profile, lets his eyes trace down his nose, lips, neck, muscles in his arms working, hands disappearing behind suds and water.

”Hold me,” he demands, so quietly he thinks he probably didn’t make a sound at all. He did, turns out, because the plates clatter against the steel sink and Mickey’s hands are still wet and soapy when they grab at his shoulders, back, neck. Ian wastes no time to turn into it, arms folding around Mickey’s waist and pressing them together, hard, burying his no doubt still snotty nose in the absolute comfort of Mickey’s neck. Mickey’s grip is like a vise, dishwater dripping down Ian’s neck from his hand, brushing into the back of his hair, the other arm wound tight around his slumped shoulders.

”Kiss me,” he tries his luck and grins when he immediately feels Mickey’s lips against his neck, pressing and kissing and wandering along his jawline to his mouth. Ian rocks back a little when he gets there, feels Mickey’s hot breath against his own. Mickey’s grip on his neck tightens but he doesn’t try to close the distance between them, instead he opens his eyes and looks straight at Ian, tilting his head back a little in question, in challenge.

And Ian holds on to his waist and looks into his eyes, and he thinks now is the time to say it, like so many times before. But his mouth is dry and his mind is nothing but Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, and the words just never sound like he wants them to, when he _needs them to_. So he searches Mickey’s eyes for understanding, and he opens his mouth to nothing but hot air.

Mickey nods. ”Yeah, Ian, I know.”

Ian nods back, out of pure relief, and crashes his lips against Mickey’s the second he hears ’I know’.

”Two fucking weeks, asshole,” Mickey mutters against him, parting his lips to let Ian in, get him closer, and they’re already stumbling through the house to their bedroom. Once they land on the bed, naked and laughing, Ian decides to take it slow. Because _two fucking weeks_ , and because he wants to feel all of it, for as long as possible. Mickey pretends to be annoyed with him but it doesn’t hold up when he moans and keens under him, fingers slow and steady inside.

It’s good, it’s so damned good. It’s easy and grounding and wholly remarkable, they’re new and different and so lost sometimes but Ian thinks there’s nothing like looking at Mickey’s blissed out face below him, above him, to make him feel fifteen again and finding someone so wrong that fit so right. He clings to Mickey’s back as he comes, mouthing wordlessly against the back of his neck and side of his face, feels the palm of Mickey’s warm hand on his cheek and the sticky heat of his orgasm spilling between his fingers, working underneath them.

He’s still out of breath when he pulls out and picks himself up on his elbows, allowing for Mickey to turn around under him. He meets Mickey halfway when he surges up to kiss him, and absentmindedly wipes his sticky hand on the sheets before he trails it up to softly let it touch Mickey’s jaw, stroke along his cheekbone and down his left dimple when he smiles against his mouth, around his tongue.

”What?” Ian smiles back, lips brushing and barely moving, and lets more of his weight down, Mickey’s thighs moving against his sides.

”Gotta take a leak,” Mickey mumbles and goes in for another kiss, grumbling when Ian pulls back.

”Jesus, Mick,” he laughs and bites his lip over it when he pokes Mickey in the side, making him squirm and hook an arm around his neck in a firm lock, ”so fucking romantic, man.”

”Yeah, gonna be even better if I piss all over you,” Mickey states and he’s not wrong, so Ian reluctantly ducks out from under his arm and rolls off him, keeping a steady eye on his ass as it swaggers out the room.

”Nice,” he comments, mostly to himself because Mickey sure as hell doesn’t need to hear it to know it.

Making the least amount of effort to clean up Ian grabs a t-shit from the floor to catch the worst of the mess before he settles in on the bed, pulling the sheets up to his stomach. Mickey comes back into the room after a few minutes and sits down next to him, covering his legs with the sheets and leaning back against the headboard. 

”Calling it an early night?” he asks, picking up his pack of smokes from the nightstand and pulling one out.

”Not getting up,” Ian confirms with a yawn, stretching out and putting one hand behind his head, ”got a problem with that?”

Mickey puts the cigarette to his lips and glances down at Ian with a grin, cigarette bobbing when he lights it. ”Really don’t.”

”Good,” Ian sighs contently and closes his eyes, fingertips gently finding Mickey’s thigh under the sheets and tracing it slowly, hand staying to rest on his knee.

He listens to Mickey smoke, lets the calm after the storm wash over him and lull him into a kind of half-sleep, his fingertips drawing lazy circles on Mickey’s knee grounding him. The soft sounds of dry filter against Mickey’s kissed lips and crinkle of burning paper fill the room, the familiar bite of nicotine hitting Ian stronger with each of Mickey’s slow exhales.

”Lip’s gonna hate this, ain’t he?” 

Ian cracks an eye open and glances up at Mickey, he’s got one arm resting on his bent knee, the one Ian hasn’t claimed, and his other hand to his mouth, two fingers angling the cigarette away from his face, thumb worrying at his bottom lip. Ian slowly opens his other eye and tilts his head so he can get a better angle of his bedmate, see if he can make better sense of him that way.

He can’t. ”What?”

Mickey shrugs and meets his eyes. ”Never liked me, did he?”

Ian shifts his head back and looks up at the dark ceiling, mindlessly tracing the pattern of shadows cast from outside.

”Do you care?” he asks, because he never even imagined that he would.

”Guess not,” Mickey admits, ”do you?”

Ian snorts but stops smiling when Mickey shoves his leg against him. Not enough to dislodge his hand, but enough to make him take the question seriously.

”When I left for the army,” Ian starts, thumb slowly moving over Mickey’s knee, ”he told me the best thing about falling for Mickey Milkovich is you can always find someone better.”

”Hope you punched that smirk right off his stupid fucking face,” Mickey mutters and sucks at his cigarette, raising his eyebrows when Ian shakes his head, ”no? Shit, really wish I’d taken my time to punch more people while I was still on the right side of 18, you know? Could’ve clipped him ’couple of times like a preemptive kinda thing.”

”Tried to cheer me up,” Ian shrugs, ignoring Mickey’s sidetrack, ”thought I was halfway to suicidal ’cause of you. I remember thinking he didn’t know shit, I’d told him the, like, gist of it… but he didn’t know, didn’t understand at all. And I felt kinda free, ’cause the guy I was in love with didn’t want me, and my best friend didn’t get it, and I was never gonna come back.”

”I remember,” Mickey mumbles, eyes on his still glowing cigarette when Ian looks at him.

Ian hums and shifts a little, feels his hand starting to fall asleep under the weight of his head.

”Changed his tune when I got diagnosed,” he continues, getting back on track and steering clear of things they can’t change, ”he thinks you’re really good for me.”

He glances up at Mickey in time to see him make a face.

”No really,” he says and can’t help smiling.

”Bullshit,” Mickey decides, suspiciously eying Ian as if to see if he’ll crack, ”six years we’ve been together and every other word outta his mouth is one snide comment or another, usually aimed at yours fucking truly.”

”So sensitive,” Ian teases and gently squeezes Mickey’s thigh because he doesn’t know why he finds his partner’s longstanding pissing contest with Lip so amusing, so entirely endearing.

”Fuck you,” Mickey huffs, ”what was all that ’count to ten’ crap about, huh? Yeah, I heard him, I’m not fucking deaf.”

Ian can’t help laughing and has to dig his fingers into the soft skin around Mickey’s knee in order to keep his hand there when Mickey swats at it.

”Whatever,” Mickey mutters, ”basically told me to my face when you were upstairs with Yev, anyway.”

”What did he say?” Ian asks, more curious now than amused.

”Fuck should I know?” Mickey blows out the last of his smoke and it billows around his words, ”dickwad needs to mind his own fucking business, kinda tune him out most of the time.”

Ian watches him as Mickey twists to reach the ashtray on the nightstand, stubbing out his cigarette.

”Thinks you can do better,” Ian tells him, corner of his lips involuntarily twitching when Mickey turns back and looks down at him, eyebrows raised, ”it’s true. You got it all wrong, it’s not you, it’s me.”

Mickey stares at him for a second before he suddenly starts nodding slowly, eyes searching the dark and lips pursed in contemplation.

”He’s dead wrong, though,” Ian tries and lets out a shocked gasp when Mickey narrows his eyes and tilts his head. Ignoring the pins and needles in his sleeping hand, Ian quickly heaves himself up and grabbing Mickey around the back of his knee he yanks him down the bed so he can wrestle himself on top, catching his wrists and pinning them deep into the soft mattress, putting all his weight on his hips, grinding down.

”You’re not even trying,” he accuses Mickey, who does nothing but shake his head and smile and fuck if it doesn’t work. Whole body melting, Ian falls into the kiss, hands loosening their grip, fingers tangling.

”I love you,” he says when they’re in the car the next morning, well rested and scrubbed clean. The air is cool and rich from freshly fallen rain, and Mickey doesn’t look at him but he smiles like he’s won the fucking lottery. The ride is quiet, before and after, country music playing low on the radio, the first station they could find that wasn’t all talk. Yevgeny is still asleep when they get to Lip’s and they end up staying there for breakfast, Lip by the stove dishing out pancakes like a spatula-wielding machine once the kids wake up.

”All good?” he asks, setting a plate down in front of Ian and placing a quick, firm hand on his shoulder.

”Yeah,” Ian nods and meets Mickey’s eyes across the table. Mickey kinda smirks and gives him the eyebrows, because they’re _all good_ and Mickey is clearly still of the opinion that Lip needs to mind his own damned business. Ian smiles and rolls his eyes at him, and asks Yevgeny to pass the syrup.

”What’s the magic word?” Yevgeny asks with a mischievous smile, holding the sticky syrup bottle close to his chest, most likely leaving big stains all over Fozzie Bear’s face.

”Please?” Ian tries and throws up his hands in playful exasperation when Yevgeny shakes his head. ”Am I gonna have to fight you for it, little man?”

”He did this all night,” Ian turns to Liam when he speaks, his kid brother looking very pleased to no longer be on the receiving end of Yevgeny’s games.

”You know the magic word?” Ian asks him, fighting to maintain his serious tone with his kid giggling on one side, and Liam smiling wider by the second on the other.

”You don’t know?” Lip taunts as he moves across his kitchen to open the fridge.

Ian looks from Lip to Mickey in surprise when the latter scoffs.

”I know,” Mickey gleefully admits as he shoves a large piece of well-syruped pancake into his mouth, smiling smugly around it when Ian stares at him in disbelief.

”My own family,” Ian laments, pinning them all one by one with stern glares, shaking his head, ”unbelievable.”

”He’s been doin’ this for a whole fucking week, man,” Mickey speaks with his mouth full and eyes on his next bite, fork twisting in the air like he’s inspecting it, ”serves you right.”

Ian dips his head at the gentle reminder of his absence and returns his attention to Yevgeny, who’s biting his lip and almost bouncing in his seat out of excitement to involve another person in his new favorite game of holding condiments hostage.

”A trade?” Ian suggests, blindly holding up a hand to silence Mickey when he sees him shake his head in his periphery, ”how many kisses do you want for it?”

Yevgeny rolls his eyes and hugs the bottle closer.

”Not interested, huh?” Ian sighs. ”Works on your dad.”

”You wish,” Mickey mutters and Ian ignores him, narrowing his eyes at his son.

”I could bring out the five armies,” he muses and slowly picks up his right hand from his lap, raising it from under the table like Excalibur from the Lake. Yevgeny gasps and scoots back a little on his chair, eyes sparkling with amused horror.

”Oh no,” he whispers but bravely holds on to the syrup, even when Ian widens his eyes and snaps his hand around, fixing his gaze on Yevgeny as though both him and his possessed hand have spotted their target.

”Ain’t cleaning up if you make a mess,” Mickey announces calmly between bites, and it’s as close as he’ll ever get to telling his partner and kid to behave. Ian grins but doesn’t break eye contact with Yevgeny, ominously flexing his bent fingers at him.

”Is the uh- five armies basically the claw?” Lip casually asks from behind the kitchen island.

”Silence, halfling!” Ian orders him and wiggles his fingers some more, biting back a smile when Yevgeny stares at them and loosens his death-grip on the syrup just a little. ”This is beyond your comprehension, puny mortal.”

”’Cause it looks a lot like the claw.”

”Surrender the Sticky Bottle of Lady Butterworth,” Ian soldiers on, voice booming through the kitchen, ”or face the horrors of tickle doom at the hand of the Five Armies.”

”Never!” Yevgeny defies him but squeals and holds out the bottle the second Ian stands up to loom over him, ”no, dad, take it!”

”The five armies stand undefeated!” Ian announces and swoops down as though to tickle his son despite his surrender, Yevgeny laughing and squeaking out a desperate ’no!’ right before Ian changes direction and grabs him gently by the face instead, pressing a loud kiss to his left cheek.

”Thank you,” he smiles and dodges the sticky hands swatting at him once he’s secured the bottle, Yevgeny trying his best to scowl as he wipes at his cheek. Ian sits back with a triumphant grin and ostentatiously pours syrup all over his quickly cooling breakfast.

”You’re such a cheat,” Mickey criticizes him, but Ian can see the affection pooling in his eyes when he glances his way. Mickey has a way of looking at Ian and his kid playing that hasn’t changed much in their six years together as a family. It always goes straight to Ian’s heart, seeing it, like a current of something rushing between them. 

He shrugs and carves out a big bite from his stack of pancakes. ”Got skills.”

”Dirty tricks,” Mickey counters and grins when Lip lets out an admonishing ’hey!’ and points at him from across the room, ”relax, Philip, keepin’ it PG.”

”Good,” Lip walks around the table to finally sit down, not bothering to ask before he stretches across their breakfast spread to snatch up the coveted syrup bottle.

”When did you join the One Thousand Moms, man?” Mickey asks, eyebrows raised at Lip’s unexpected call for censorship.

”It’s One Million, Mick,” Ian corrects him, pulling a face when Mickey looks genuinely disturbed, ”it’s not an accurate number.”

”My concern is not for the kids,” Lip shrugs and picks up the coffee to pour himself a cup, ”I’m speaking on behalf of my own uh- sensitive constitution.”

”Pretty sure that’s what the moms are doing, too,” Ian interjects, standing up to grab a couple of paper napkins from the kitchen island when Yevgeny sneezes all over the crook of his arm, looking up at him afterwards with a mix of pride and helplessness.

”You got something to say?” Mickey asks, glaring defiantly at Lip while absentmindedly stacking Liam’s empty plate under his own, so the kid has more room for the coloring book he’s kept hidden under his chair.

”Nope,” Lip shakes his head and meets Mickey’s glare with quick smirk, ”and I don’t think not wanting to hear about where and how my brother likes the D equates me to deranged Christian fundamentalist soccer moms.”

Ian scoffs and rolls his eyes, and makes sure to put all his focus on wiping Yevgeny’s arm clean so he won’t bring up all the times he’s had to listen to him and Mandy going at it, back in their old room. Mickey doesn’t need to hear that.

He gets there just fine on his own. ”All four of you in that tiny room, should be fucking used to it after that.”

”What?” Lip licks a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth and leans his elbows on the table as he fixes Mickey with his clouded eyes, ”you think uh- you think Ian made a habit of bringing home guys, you know, before you had your little ’marital problems’ and crashed on the floor like we didn’t all know?”

Ian can sense Mickey looking at him but he resolutely stays out of it, grinning at Yevgeny when the kid holds up his hands for inspection. Paper napkins won’t cut it, that’s becoming increasingly obvious.

”Go wash up in the bathroom,” he instructs softly and helps the kid down from his chair.

”-best part about having your kid brother still in the closet,” Lip says with a shrug when Ian tunes back in, frowning at the glib comment as he looks at his brother. Lip suddenly jerks when Mickey very obviously kicks him in the shin under the table.

”Ian lived in a closet?” Liam asks, three pairs of eyes turning to look at him in unison. 

”Yeah, bud,” Lip says, ”you remember the old house right? Could even say he was lucky to get the closet, didn’t have to smell Carl’s farts in there.”

Lip barely manages to stifle a loud curse when Mickey presumably gets in another good hit, his annoyed scowl smoothing out a little more with each childish act of revenge. Ian decides for himself that whatever Mickey wants later on that night, when they’re alone and free, Mickey’s gonna get.

”So pleased you crazy kids managed to patch things up,” Lip jokes, but there’s no mistaking the genuine glint in his eyes and tilt to his head when he glances across the table at Ian. Mickey snorts but magnanimously refrains from kicking him again throughout the rest of the meal.

”You know I’m sorry, right?” Ian asks later when they step outside, Yevgeny grabbing the keys from Mickey’s hand and running ahead. ”To your right, Yevy, and watch out for traffic.”

”I know,” Mickey sighs and pats at his jacket in search for his smokes. Ian silently holds out the emergency stash he carries with him for these exact occasions, when Mickey starts muttering and going through all of his pockets for a second time. Mickey pulls out a cigarette from the pack with a pleased grunt and glances at Ian as he re-pockets the rest and holds up a lighter. 

”I’m sorry too,” he says and Ian watches his face closely as he puts the cigarette to his lips and steps forward. Ian flicks the lighter and cups his free hand around the flame, enjoying the sight of his furrowed brows and determined lips. Slowly sucking at the cigarette and taking it between two fingers, Mickey rocks back and blowing out smoke between them carefully meets Ian’s lingering gaze.

”Not what I meant,” Ian says, stuck in place for a second when Mickey unceremoniously turns and starts walking after their kid. He puts away the lighter and takes a couple of wide strides to catch up to his partner, quickly falling into step with his leisured pace. ”Two weeks, Mick, that’s all on me.”

”Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Mickey mutters, and Ian really hadn’t thought it possible for him to fall more in love than he already was, but there you go, ”does fucking wonders for your dick, too, but you never hear ’em wax poetic about that.”

Not only possible, but again and again and endlessly it seems. He wants to be serious but he can’t help smiling and stealing sideways glances at Mickey’s calm profile as they slowly walk down the street.

”Had your way, we’d fought it out straight away,” Ian picks at scabs, it’s his fucking nature.

”Yeah, well,” Mickey frowns and meets Ian’s eyes for a second before once more landing them on Yevgeny, the kid waiting impatiently for them by their car at the end of the street, ”welcome to relationships, Gallagher.”

”Seems like a waste, ’s all,” Ian shrugs, part of him wanting to tell Mickey how deeply ashamed he is of himself for ever doubting, for needing to reassess something that should be so clear to him. Something Mickey never seems to need, at all. He thinks Mickey probably knows.

”When was the last time something like this happened?” Mickey asks and takes Ian by surprise, narrowing his eyes as he thinks it over.

”Fiona’s birthday,” he concludes.

”Fiona’s birthday,” Mickey nods, ”that’s like, what? Three years ago? 52, 104, 156 weeks. That’s like no more than 1.3 percent you gotta be sorry for and a solid 98.7 you made me happy. That’s good math, Ian, don’t sweat it.”

”My calculator man,” Ian mumbles and rests his arm over Mickey’s shoulders, pulling him in just a little closer as they walk up to the car. Yevgeny has already unlocked the doors and climbed inside, breathing heavily on the window to make himself a canvas for smiley faces and a painstakingly lettered backwards ’YEV’.

Mickey wiggles his fingers in a discreet wave at their son and moves to open the door to the driver’s seat.

”Hold up,” Ian says and turns him around by the lapels, eyes on his hands gripping the dusty green fabric as he walks him up against the car, leaving as little space between them as possible. Out of goddamned habitual paranoia he glances up and down the empty street before he looks at Mickey; cigarette hanging from his quirked lips he meets his eyes with unyielding certainty and an unspoken challenge stuck there since that first time, so long ago, frantic and needy and against all odds.

Ian stands there, close, and just stares and breathes until Mickey picks up a hand to his mouth, sucking lightly at his cigarette before grabbing it between two fingers and moving it out of the way. Ian barely lets him exhale before he rocks forward and presses his mouth to his, hands tightening their grip on his coat. Mickey smiles against him and angles his head a little to allow him in further, deeper, and Ian doesn’t waste time following. Mickey’s soon got a hand on his neck, gingerly brushing against the back of his head and with practiced ease angling the still burning cigarette away from his hair, his other hand gently touching his cheek, neck, resting on his chest. Ian could stand there and basically suck face forever, he thinks, but life sometimes has other plans. He vaguely registers the whirr of a window sliding open and Yevgeny sticking his head out the crack.

”Come on!” he whines, any further protests muffled by Mickey’s hand covering his face and carefully shoving him back inside the car. ”So gross.”

They narrow down forever to another thirty seconds, a minute tops, and then get in the car to the sound of Yevgeny’s exasperated ’finally!’. They take the long way home, leisurely driving around Chicago with Yevgeny chatting in the back seat. They drive down to the lake and decide to have the last ice cream of the year, by silent agreement not acknowledging it as a mistake when they soon after huddle back inside the car and turn up the heat. They drive home, make the most of the last lazy day before a new week of day-to-day work and life.

Ian is not happy 98.7 percent of the time, but he makes a decision every day and he fights. He fights for what he wants; he fights for himself, he fights for Mickey. Most days good and without a hint of doubt, of fear.

’We’ll figure something out,’ Mickey told him once, holding him close and most likely lying through his teeth. On days like these, Ian is inclined to think they did.

 

 

 

...

**Author's Note:**

> Willie Nelson's Crazy is playing on the radio.
> 
>  
> 
> *shrugs* : ) [loftec.tumblr.com](http://loftec.tumblr.com)


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